


Blades

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Character Death, Crack, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tyene Sand is hired as a sellsword by House Bolton.  Crackfic.</p><p>Inspired by an unfilled prompt request at <a href="http://got_exchange.livejournal.com">got_exchange on LiveJournal</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blades

When the letter had come, with the unfamiliar pink seal, Tyene had been confused at first, but as she read the details, a sweet smile spread across her normally placid features. It had been so long since justice was truly done, and she thirsted for such.

She came north as a hired sword, at least that’s how Tyene thought of it as she made the tedious journey from Dorne. Leaving her cryptic needlework behind, she allayed her boredom by watching out the window of the wheelhouse, watching the lands change from the familiar red sands of home, to the verdant green of the south, and finally, the faded grey of the north. She would have preferred a horse, but caution dictated that she take every precaution to mask her identity. There were eyes everywhere. Had not her sisters, her countrymen, instilled such circumspection in her?

She was garbed soberly, in a plain dark gown, her fair hair obscured by a chaste cap. She was fortunate in her pale complexion and light eyes; she would blend with the Northerners quite well, and be able to pass as one of them. And her success would depend upon that.

*

Tyene came to his chambers that evening, slipping unseen through the silent corridors of the Dreadfort, still dressed as his wife’s maid, concealing a fine set of slim blades on her person, in case Ramsay had not been the only one of his kind. She did not trust northerners, and blood gleamed bright in everyone’s eyes, it seemed. Tyene was not a fool. She saw the tensions fermenting and had resolved to quit this place as soon as she’d collected her due from Roose Bolton.

Her knock was as quiet and restrained as her speech, and once he’d ascertained that it was the little sellsword, he admitted her to his chambers. She was surprised, at first, by his wife’s absence. It seemed as though Lord Bolton and his child bride were inseparable, a fact that had at first confused and almost offended Tyene ( _putting her at risk in this nest of vipers?_ she’d thought with heavy disapproval), but one she had chalked up to the man’s eccentricities. Bolton was strange, there was no doubt about that. But he was good for the coin, she could tell.

With downcast eyes, she entered his chamber. “I believe that you know why I have come,” she said, “and such matters are usually handled with great delicacy. Such an awkward business, the changing of money for a man’s life. But it is a necessary evil, I wont.”

Lord Bolton seemed distracted as he handed her the bag of coin. “Necessary? Hardly. Had he not been such a risk, I would not have seen the need.”

Tyene was surprised at the note of regret in his voice. She had not thought that this man was capable of any sort of affection beyond what convention dictated, but perhaps she was wrong about that. “Your wife is with child,” she said gently, slipping the money into her skirt pocket. “It will not be long now until she bears you a son to take his place.” She smiled then, and it was genuine. “I am surprised that she is not by your side, my lord. You seem quite taken with each other, despite your many…differences.”

“She is resting. The pregnancy is quite far along now. Walda is so young, and she tires easily.” He paused, sitting on the edge of the large curtained bed. “He was my son and heir,” Bolton said, and Tyene imagined that she heard a note of regret in his voice, although it is cold.

Tyene felt almost ashamed. “I know what it is,” she said gently, “to lose someone.” She sat beside him, hand easily finding a dagger, sliding it into her bun. _Just a precaution. Even if this man grieves, which I doubt he truly does, I still do not trust him._ “My dear father’s death wounded me very deeply. Even though you had no choice, my lord, please know that you have my deepest sympathies.”

Tyene risked a quick touch, her delicate fingers lightly caressing his shoulder. He acted as though he did not feel it.

“May I ask,” Roose Bolton finally said, “how you finished the job?”

Tyene’s expression brightened, and a gentle smile bloomed on her serene face. “The poison was the first step,” she said gently, “a bit in his wine, just enough to weaken him and throw him off guard. The pretty and willing chambermaid with her busy hands threw him off guard even more.” She paused at the fleeting look of disgust on his face and said, rather delicately, “There are always unpleasant things with any task. Now then. When he took me to his bed, I was quick. A kiss on the lips, my blade in my hand, and before the gentleman knew it, his throat was cut.”

Roose listened intently.

“He choked on his own blood, of course,” she said with an air of finality. “That is usually the way of it, my lord. Would you have me dispose of the body?”

He shook his head. “He’d enemies enough. Leave him be.”

Tyene did not feel quite satisfied. She usually saw her patrons happy, or with a sense of relief. Lord Bolton was unreadable, and it troubled her. After her encounter with his natural son, she was surprised that he wasn’t at least smiling.

“You must not regret what you’ve done,” she said then. Her hand was still on his shoulder. She stroked it gently, feeling a sudden urge to comfort him. Tyene had always believed that a killing done in the name of vengeance was a blessing, and she felt the need to make things more pleasant. “It was just.”

“Most men would not call me just.”

She laughed. “And that might be so, my lord! But it was necessary, don’t you see? Better his throat cut than yours and your little bride’s.”

He turned to her then, at the mention of his wife. She guiltily pulled back her hand and backed away, but he had her wrists in a death grip. “It is a fine point, Tyene.” His name sounded like an epithet coming from his lips.

“Then grieve not, for what you have lost was not even worth the having,” she said, her voice light.

Lord Bolton frowned at her tone, but he did not pull away when she dared to squeeze his hand, a faint smile playing about her lips, a gleam in her eyes. She’d often thought of bedding a Northerner, but she’d never had the chance, and although she was always discreet and the picture of gentle restraint, Tyene had a strange notion to have this man. After all, she’d almost had done with his bastard, before bleeding him out.  
She kissed him then, and he pulled back but she did not flinch. “I had thought that you missed a woman’s touch, Lord Bolton. After all, your little wife is far too along for…but I am indelicate. It is none of my business, of course.” She felt a genuine need to atone for her rudeness, although when he kissed her back, she understood that it wasn’t necessary. She realized that she might have more than she bargained for when he shoved her onto the bed, and remembered the rumors that she’d heard tell about Roose Bolton and his supposed proclivities. Still, there were remedies and she was resourceful.

As he cruelly dug his fingers into her waist, Tyene remembered something. She still wore her hair in that demure little northern coif, and she reached for it, seductively, as though she were loosing her tresses for a lover’s pleasure. She slipped the blade out, small as a finger and honed to an elegant sharpness, and concealed it in her palm. Its twin, the one in her sleeve, would soon be useless. She did not cringe as he fumbled with her dress, nor at the coldness of his hands as they undid the laces, revealing her bare skin. She did not struggle as his mouth closed on her breast, raising a bright purple bruise, stark against her paleness. She did not make a sound as his hands guided her, positioning her legs so that he could more easily enter her.

It wasn’t unpleasant, but there was nothing there. Bolton’s touch was as a marble statue, and while his hands weren’t cruel, nor his lips clammy, Tyene felt nothing of the passion that her lovers on Dorne had displayed, their enthusiasm vivid, their emotions stirred. He treated this as though it were another business transaction. She was used to having some response from her partners, at least a sigh, if not outright noises of pleasure, but Roose Bolton did not even change expression as he had his way with her, and she was relieved when he pulled out before making another bastard to replace the one that she’d just done away with.

When they were finished, she slipped on her clothing, almost disappointed that she’d no need of her little blades. At least they’d be clean for the journey home.

*

After Tyene departed, he went to his wife’s chambers to prepare her for the next day. Walda was still awake, but resting, reclining on her back, dressed in a lacy pink nightgown, her hand resting protectively on her stomach. When he opened the door, she started, but when she realized that it was her husband, her entire form relaxed. Roose sat on the bed and stroked her hair.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she said, her voice low. “I was afraid that-“

He put a finger to her lips. “You won’t have to be afraid any longer.” She struggled to sit up and he shook his head, reclining next to her. “Lie still, Walda, and listen.” She smiled as he kissed her cheek and it only broadened as he continued. “Ramsay is dead. Tomorrow, you will cry when you hear the news. If you cannot, stick yourself with a pin and that will bring tears.”

“How?” was all that she said, eyes wide.

“I will not say, but it is done. Our hands are clean, and he had enough enemies that there will be no lack of suspects, not that any will truly mourn him.”

“I am sorry,” she said then. “He was your son after all.”

Roose drew her close, his hand stroking her belly. “I will soon have another.” Walda giggled at that.

“He was kicking earlier, darling. I’d wanted you to see, but didn’t want to interrupt your work.”

“He’s kicking now.”

Walda looked pleased but did not say anything for a long while. At last she broke the silence. “I’m glad he’s dead,” she said, and her voice was hard, without the usual giddiness or cheer. Roose was a bit surprised at her tone, but listened. “Do you know that he threatened me, and the baby?” Her voice was a whisper now, as if she was afraid that Ramsay would somehow hear.

“Why did you not tell me?” He squeezed her tightly, possessively. He didn’t love this girl, but he had grown very fond of her despite himself, despite everything really, and the child was the Bolton heir. _His_ child. And that was the reason why he’d never let her out of his sight until this evening. “You should have done.”

She shook her head. “I know. He said that if I did, he’d slice me open like a fat little capon and hand me the baby so that I could see if it had its father’s eyes before he cut its throat.” She shivered. “I thought to kill him myself, but I didn’t know how.”

Roose was shocked at that. Walda was so benign that the idea of her plotting someone’s doom was almost laughable, indeed, almost adorable, but he supposed that desperation might cause anyone to take such measures. “Poison,” he said at last. “Poison would have been a fine choice. You could have stolen it from the maester’s stores.”

She laughed but it wasn’t sweet. “I’m a fool then, not to have thought of that.” She relaxed a bit, brushing her lips against his, her expression tender. “But it’s done, and all is well, and soon we will have our little boy.” Her voice was almost back to its normal sweetness. “What am I saying? I don’t think that a woman would be capable of killing him. He was so…brutal.”

“Enough of that.” He kissed her on the tip of her nose. “I won’t hear another word on the matter, Walda.”

“Of course, sweet husband. It shall be as you say. And tomorrow, I shall be greatly saddened when the terrible discovery has been made.”

“Very well.”

“And I will do my best to comfort you in your time of…grief.”

“You will be my one consolation,” he said drily, and they kissed. This time, it was deeper, but Roose pulled back. “You are tired, little wife,” he said gently, and she was. Walda hadn’t slept well since they’d returned to the Dreadfort, even on nights when she lay next to her lord husband, but her fear was gone, and she looked forward to a comfortable night.

“You’ll stay with me?” she said as he shifted, rising from the bed.

“Of course,” he said, but once the candle was extinguished and Walda silenced by her exhaustion, he lay awake until dawn, when he heard the screams of his son’s squire.


End file.
